


Synthetic II: CORE

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Brothers, Graphic Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8346973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: Sam returns with the shopping...





	

Synthetic II: CORE  
Kitty Fisher

 

The brown bag is on the floor, right by the chair that Sam has dragged over and placed in front of him. It looks so innocuous. No store name, not that big, or that small, so normal it could be from anywhere.

But…

Dean shifts his knees a fraction, easing a little of the pain in his thighs. He’s sweating, a trickle of it running slowly down his belly, across skin quivering from enforced tension. Hell, he can be obedient. Sure he can. And from the moment Sam left, to the moment the door re-opened and Sam smiled at him, he’s been in the same position, kneeling, legs apart, cock pulsing with every breath that he can drag into his lungs. If there’s pain, he’s gone past the point of feeling it, though he knows as soon as the ropes are off he’s going to be cursing the air blue. He’s never been bound for this long – well, not since way back. And then it had been a test. Though, huh, maybe this was too.

For a second he closes his eyes, sways slightly as he hears boots thudding to the floor and a jacket being tossed onto the bed. When he opens wide, Sam’s there, getting comfy in the chair, his long, bony feet bare on the grimy carpet. Sam grins, a flash of love, then he’s just sitting there, watching. Though he’s maybe a little amused. A little horny too, from the bulge in his jeans. Which is just fine. Dean’s never liked dancing alone.

“I wondered if you’d get bored.”

Dean shakes his head. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to talk. Or even if he can.

“Guess the ropes’d be kinda hard to slip out of.” Shaking his head, Sam leans forward, toes curling as his feet flex, the arches high and elegant. “And I’m glad you stayed there. I’ve been thinking about you. That girl, she hit hard.”

Not a question. And, oh yeah. The stripes are burning, stung by salt as he sweats through the enforced stillness.

“She do anything else?”

Dean shakes his head and risks a glance up, knowing his eyes are wide and that he’s saying please don’t make me talk, even though the words are silent. And Sam understands. Though, fuck, how can he understand, when all he knows is innocent girls and fucking puppy-love fucks and kindness – yeah, and offing demons and having his life ripped apart, so maybe the depths were there, waiting. Or maybe he’s more like their father than either of them imagined, which is something that hits Dean like a blow to the gut and he bites on his lip, hard.

“Shush, it’s okay!” Legs spread, Sam leans close and he’s stroking Dean’s face. “Stop thinking. Or is that what you want here, a little assistance to turn your brain off?” The fingertips slide down, along his jaw line and rest there, on his pulse which he knows is racing, because it’s beating in his head too. “How often you been asking some whore to beat you up, brother?”

Which needs words. And Dean forces them though his lips, and his voice is unsteady which he hates, so he clears his throat though that makes no difference anyway. “Now and then.”

“Isn’t all the free pussy enough?”

No. Dean tries again. “Not the same.”

“No, I don’t suppose it is.” The hand dips, touches one nipple, strokes gently and it’s like an electric cable’s been jammed into his cock.

“Oh…” Dean arches back, mouth open wide just to drag in enough air.

“Fuck, you’re so damn pretty.” The fingers pinch, hard. And this time it’s Sam who moans softly, as Dean shudders helplessly and the strong fingers twist and pull, until the pain shifts from sweet to incandescent and a cry bleeds from Dean’s mouth.

Only then does Sam let go.

Sweat drips from Dean’s chin.

“So.” Sam sits negligently, hands loose between his thighs, though his breath is heightened too and there’s a flush staining his cheeks. “Want to see what I bought?”

Oh, man, you have to ask? Dean nods. 

“Ask nicely.”

“Please, Sam.”

“Hmm, not sure about Sam. How about you call me sir.”

Oh, god he’s fucked, because that should make him laugh but all he can do is nod and stammer the words out fast as he can. “Please, sir.”

“Good boy.”

Hey, he doesn’t bark. Instead he relaxes a notch, tension easing in his neck and shoulders, which Sam sees and smiles at. Dean lifts his gaze and they, just for a moment, look at each other, the whole world there, between then.

“Don’t say anything now. But if you want anything, say sir and I’ll let you talk.”

Dean nods. And almost hyperventilates as Sam reaches for the bag. A wicked tease of a smile tugging at his mouth, he starts to uncurl the paper where he’s been carrying it. The noise seems so loud. Coarse paper unfolding, opening. Even if there was air in the room, Dean would be incapable of taking it in. Every atom in his body is focused as Sam’s hand delves into the bag.

And pulls out an apple.

Dean’s eyes dart up. Wicked, oh yeah. And something else, so Dean doesn’t do anything stupid, he stays still and silent and waits.

“You’re good, boy, I’ll give you that. All that training, man, it worked.” Sam shakes his head in grudging respect, for Dean or their father, Dean’s not sure, but it doesn’t matter because Sam’s leaning forward again, holding the apple - green and shiny, not red at all - to his lips. “Take a bite.”

The fruit even smells green. Like Spring, or wet grass - or the shampoo he used before all he ever had was motel generic. Almost hesitating, Dean opens his mouth, and the apple is pressed closer. It’s cold against his lips; hard against his teeth. He bites, and juice squirts into his dry mouth, trickles down his chest. He chews. Waits. At a nod, he swallows, the pulped apple going down his gullet like lead.

Sam licks the place where Dean has bitten, then holds the apple once more to Dean’s lips. “Again.”

This time he takes a bigger bite, teeth sinking in and pulling a chunk out that fills his mouth with thick flesh and the sharpness of skin. He chews and chews, stickiness on his chin, all the time staring at where a spattering of juice has caught Sam’s jeans. When his mouth is clear he takes in a deep breath, almost panting, but the apple is held immediately to his lips.

“Don’t bite. Just open wide.”

Right now he’d do anything. He’s so close, so wound in the moment that he’s not really thinking, just being. And wanting. Orders he understands, but that’s about the limit of his self. He opens.

And the bitten-into half of the apple is pressed into his mouth, like a gag. “Bite, but just enough to hold it in place, not enough to bite through or not enough to let it drop, got it.”

It’s hard. Hard to keep just the right tension in the bite, hard to breathe around the apple that’s half up his nose and the way his throat is torqued so only a sliver of air at a time can slip down into his lungs, but he does it, and sways slightly, because it’s weird shit, but it’s so fucking hot that he’ll never look at an apple the same way again, and he wonders if this is just Sam being Sam and left-field and quirky or just Sam understanding and being a bastard because if he doesn’t come soon –

“Still thinking?”

And Sam stands up, shucks his shirt and starts on the snaps to his jeans. Dean really hadn’t appreciated the lack of a zip before, but hell, yeah, one by one, tease instead of ratcheting slide and saliva drenches his mouth as Sam just pushes his pants down and kicks them away, boxers too, so he’s naked.

And hard.

For all they’ve done and been, Dean’s never seen his brother’s cock like this. Not hard like this, close up. So he looks, and wonders, because he knows himself to be Joe-average, but this, this cock, Sam’s cock is beautiful – long shaft that’s slim, but with a ripe-peach sized head that looks fit to bust an ass like a jack-hammer but be sweet afterwards, what with all that length following behind, once the hard work’s done.

He hasn’t been ass-fucked in a long time. Yet he can feel his sphincter clenching. Wanting. And Dean swallows hard, juice trickling into his throat as his jaw starts to twitch as muscles begin to cramp.

“Get up.”

Somehow he does, staggering slightly on wobbly legs. A hand under his arm, tight around the ropes, holds him and Sam’s there, bending slightly, licking around the shiny side of the apple, licking skin, tasting and chewing at Dean and the apple until Dean’s moaning and the apple is pulp between them, falling away and Sam’s kissing him fiercely, eating him, though there’s pith and seeds and core falling between their bodies, mashed and slippery between skin and skin.

Sam’s wide eyed when he backs away, one hand wiping his mouth, the other fisting his cock.

“Get on the bed.”

No question. Dean makes it, unsteady as a colt, climbs up onto the ancient mattress and falls onto his stomach, already spreading his legs.

“No, over.”

Oh, but Dean turns, awkwardly scrambling, making it with a heave of muscle and a groan as his arms are crushed underneath him, and then under his own weight and Sam’s, as Sam’s there, holding him down, grinding them cock to cock.

“This hurt enough, boy?”

And Dean flexes, arching up, begging with his hips, spreading his thighs wide and moaning like a bitch in heat because right now the pain is beyond sweet, and what he wants isn’t sweetness it’s hurt and Sam hurting him and fucking him and the apple was good, but this? This is what he wanted.

“Shit, Boy, I’m gonna ride you…”

And Sam’s long arms hoist his legs up and back and the strain in his shoulders is white fire, though his cock just leaps and leaks and he’s pumping his hips eagerly.

“I know, I know…”

And something’s pressed to his ass, and it’s slippery and sticky and then the fingers are gone and that thick cock-head is there instead. Sam leans over him, catches his gaze and holds it.

“No easy paths, brother.”

And just slams against him, the tightness enough to hold him back for a second, two, before weight and pressure and angle all defy resistance and Dean feels himself open, feels himself submit.

Sam’s forehead rests against his own, and Sam’s panting, sweating too as he shifts and Dean grunts in pain as he’s bent back, legs high over Sam’s shoulders.

Neither of them last long. Sam fucks like there’s no tomorrow and Dean just whites-out into nothing, coming as he comes to, his whole body jerking as Sam slams into him and curses and comes, his teeth grinding against Dean’s shoulder as Dean howls silently into the air.

Afterwards, he thinks he’s broken.

Sam pulls out, apologizing, and eases him over, apologizing. And the ropes come off and Dean lies there and burns for a long while, though it’s alright, for Sam curls around him and holds him while he shivers, clutching the sheets as his limbs remember what it is to be alive, and the taste of apple, like acid, lingers on his tongue.


End file.
